“Have you ever known any hurt at my hands?” he murmurs, with one buried in her hair and the other spanning her cheek. She supposes it’s even true, in the way that his words so often are, twisting into every crack and gap; he’s good at using other people for that, using his shadows, his creations to keep his hands clean.

“You know what my hands bring you,” he whispers against her mouth, and when his hand cups the nape of her neck, unlocks that floodgate between them, drawing her light up and out in a torrent, it’s all she can do to gasp against him, to force her lips to say in turn, “Not enough,” and wait for more.